Fractured Moonlight
by lovingcaptainswan
Summary: "Our love is pastured, such a mournful sound." Killian was left behind with Emma and Henry when the curse struck, memories intact. But it still wasn't happily ever after. Captain Swan. Post Curse AU series
1. Chapter 1

**_A/n: This series started as a prompt that was written for someone before the finale aired. Set three years post curse in an AU world where Killian was left with them after the curse hit, all of their memories intact, but with no way to get back to the Enchanted Forest, so instead, they built a life together until tragedy struck them. It started as an angsty drabble, but I do expand on the backstory in future parts. I have 4 parts written already and I'm not sure when I'll end it, but it was requested that I post this on here, so here you are! _**

_"She stood by as it fell apart, separate rooms and broken hearts, but I won't be the one to let you go." _

_~ Kiss Me Slowly - Parachute_

"We just… we jumped into things too quickly, we let our emotions get ahead of us and maybe if we had-" Emma stilled from her frantic pacing, arm freezing midair where it had been going to rub at her throbbing temple. "Are you even listening to me?"

Killian sat at the edge of the bed, elbows digging into his knees, back rigid, but his neck hanging startlingly limply, betraying the stiffness of his posture. His eyes stared lifelessly into the threading of the carpet, blankly as if he weren't looking at anything at all and his silence was the straw that broke the camel's (or in this case, the savior's) back, telltale tears that she blinked back madly burning the back of her eyes.

"What? Is the damned carpet more important than talking to me now?" she sputtered, face growing red with emotion, as the tears threatening to spill over hit her again with a vengeance. "You're not even going to-to _talk_ to me about this?"

He lifted his head slowly, darkened blue eyes peering into her green with nothing but utter defeat behind them. "What is there left to talk about?"

"I-"

"You've long made up your mind, you've told me as much over the past three weeks, so what is it that you want me to say?" His voice was thick and rough with emotion, low, like a cornered animal as he sat hunched on the bed, refusing to leave, wishing to be left in peace. "Congratulations, love, you've broken me. I've fought for you for the past year and I've got little fight left, so tell me, Emma, what_ is_ there left to talk about?"

Emma drew in a breath sharply, a pang of guilt striking hard and fast. No. She couldn't let him break her too. They'd spent the last damn year breaking each other. It'd been three years since everyone cursed had been taken away, since she'd been left alone all over again, separated from her family without hope to ever see them again - but she still had _him_, she still had _Henry_. They had _had_ Henry. It'd been just over a year since a fucking car with a reckless driver not watching where they were going did what Neverland and Peter Pan couldn't. The irony of the god damned century.

Now, for all she cared, she had no one. She'd always lived her life that way. It was safer, safer for her heart (she wasn't even sure if it could break into smaller pieces).

"You won't even fight, you won't even bloody fight for us! You get scared, you run, you leave our bed and sleep on the bloody sofa because of your past, because you're in pain, and when you're in pain you won't let anyone help you, but it's not me you're running from, Emma! I've never hurt you, I'm…" he stopped abruptly when his voice broke, and she watched his Adam's apple bob up and down for a moment before he dropped his head again. "What we have is true, and you're just _leaving it_. After everything."

He'd said the words so quietly she almost couldn't make them out. Her mind filled in the blanks of the spots that she missed, the word "true" ringing out particularly painfully.

"There's no such thing as True Love, Killian. Not in my life. And if there was…"_ It would have been him._

The air hung heavy with unspoken words, unflung insults, unsung heartbreak, words kept to themselves for fear of hurting the other more than they had already hurt them, despite that being the very thing that just might save them.

"I lied," he breathed, shaking his head, having long gone back to staring at the ground. "I'll not stop fighting for you. I don't know how."

Emma lingered by the doorway, her heart thumping in her chest as ten seconds passed, then twenty. "I'll be by in the morning to sign the papers."

He didn't say a word as she left.

She hadn't expected him to.

**Review?**


	2. Chapter 2

_"Steady hands, just take the wheel and every glance is killing me."_

_ Stop and Stare - OneRepublic_

He was touching her.

A casual touch to her knee, a swipe of hair from her eyes (it always_ had_ gotten in the way, but he liked it that way because it was as unruly as she was), fingers intentionally brushing against hers on the bar counter. Every calculated touch sent a sickening jolt of jealousy and hurt and betrayal that he wasn't allowed to feel straight into his chest.

Another man was touching his ex-wife at a bloody _bar_ and she was letting him.

Killian forced his gaze away, tipped his head back and swallowed the glass of rum so quickly that he almost spilled down his chin, slowing just in time and savoring the burn as it slid down his throat.

He wished it would burn more.

Killian had come here to get away, from the pain, from his home that still felt like theirs, _from her_. Every bit of the place still looked like Emma, smelled like her. It'd been three months since they had signed those papers and she'd left with what little she could carry in her old, yellow bug, most of it being Henry's things, more willing to part with a few extra pairs of clothes and shoes and the old television than one item that had been his. The clothes she left were still hung in the closet and her half empty shampoo bottle still sat in the shower, untouched, waiting, as if she was still living there or she'd be back to get them soon.

The other man's hand slowly slid up her thigh and Killian had to ball his into a fist to keep from doing something stupid, relieved when she grimaced and gently but firmly pushed him away and why was he watching this anyway? To torture himself? New York was a big place. He wasn't supposed to accidentally run into her at bars (especially not one two blocks from their old place) - or even worse, watch her from afar as other men attempted to fondle her.

A bitter mix of jealousy and bile rose in his throat, choking him, and he stood up abruptly, half expecting to walk out of the building and back to his apartment, the other half of him set on shoving the other man off of his bar stool and asking Emma what the bloody hell she was thinking.

He withdrew a wad of crunched up bills from his pocket and set them onto the table, still warring with himself over which option to take (knowing full well which one he _should_ take) and made the mistake of glancing back over in their direction.

Killian's heart felt like it was being crushed when the man leaned in and whispered something in her ear, his lips no doubt grazing the soft, delicate skin of her neck that should have still been _his_. She hesitated and then nodded slightly and his chest clenched. Perhaps it was the rum (a vice he'd fallen back into easily from the day that he'd watched her drive away from him), but he pushed the chair back into the table loudly, legs screeching against the floor, and half of the quiet, Tuesday night tavern glanced over their shoulders at the noise.

Her eyes widened when she saw him.

"Killian?"

"Don't mind me, love, I'm leaving," he muttered, shaking his head and attempting to walk past them.

"No, wait-"

He hesitated, her voice stopping him in his tracks. She'd always been able to do that, ever since the day they had met. He'd always been putty in her hands, even after she'd shattered his heart (after_ they'd_ shattered _their_ hearts) into a million pieces. But there was something in her tone, in the softness of her expression. Apprehension? Regret?

He paused, his gaze fixed with hers like there was nothing else to look at. "Do you mind giving us a moment, mate?"

"A moment? Hey, I was here with her first, and-"

"Bugger off," he growled without even turning to look at him, his vibrant blue eyes, dark and hurt, burning into Emma's without pause.

Rather than wait for the inevitable fight to ensue, Emma grasped his elbow, slipping out of her seat and walking him outside of the bar briskly, yanking his close to avoid making a scene.

"Did you follow me here?"

"Did I fol-" he stopped himself, not trusting the next words that would come out of his mouth to be particularly nice or appropriate for a public place. His good hand reached up to rub at the scruff of his jaw instead as he shook his head firmly, a shuddering breath leaving his chest. "I came here for a drink."

"You don't drink."

"Don't I?" He raised his eyebrows, shooting her a tightlipped, humorless smile. "And I haven't known you to go gallivanting off with strange men in bars, but I suppose people change, don't they, Lass?"

"What do you want from me?" Her voice was so sad, so small, so unlike the Emma he met three and a half years ago, unlike even the woman he had watched leave him months ago.

"I don't know, Emma. To talk, to-" he shook his head again, chuckling darkly, wondering why he was trying at all. So broken, the two of them. What a pair they'd made after all these years. "Love, what I want are things that you can't give me, not since your boy but… don't wound me by toying with the idea of trying to fix this. I couldn't bear it."

An awkward moment passed, silence still and lingering with unspoken words, neither entirely sure what to say, where to start, if they even could.

"Do you want a ride home?"

Killian froze, standing stock-still for a moment, eying her as if it were a trick. "I'll walk."

"It's freezing outside. Let me give you a ride…we can talk."

"No, I was fool to even mention it."

"Killian-"

"Isn't it a little late for talking, Emma?" he interrupted sharply. "I tried to talk with you for a _bloody fucking year_, and now you want to-"

He was silenced by her hand in his hair, tugging him forward and then her lips were on his mouth, kissing him hard, nails scraping into scalp as he felt as if his heart would beat right out of his chest. _This was wrong._ This would mean pain and he wasn't sure how much more pain he could take, but right about now, it seemed that stopping kissing her in the middle of a busy, New York sidewalk might just kill him, so he didn't stop until she did, pulling away from him with a gasping breath and a scared look.

"Emma-"

"Don't talk. Just... just come with me?"

**Review? Hint hint - there will be smut. ;)  
**


	3. Chapter 3

_And I am done with my graceless heart  
So tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart  
'Cause I like to keep my issues drawn  
It's always darkest before the dawn_

_Shake it out - Florence+The Machine_

_"Don't talk… Just-just come with me?"_

A pause.

A nod.

A short walk to the yellow bug (that was so painfully familiar) parked across the street.

He followed her without question. There were only so many times he could question her before following blindly into the dark – she was his weakness, his Achilles heel, his siren.

Ever completely and irrevocably hers, even when he _wasn't_.

It was torture and heaven, being with her that year, seeing her hurt, seeing her run from him even if it was only across the room. Even after the fate-sealing papers had been signed, he didn't know how to stop being hers, even when she didn't deserve it, even when she was being selfish.

_Like now._

Killian didn't stop her when she drove past his turn. He didn't stop her when she pulled into a hotel parking lot and got out of the car without offering an explanation. He didn't fight her when she tugged him into an empty room and forced her lips against his violently, like she was _starving for him_ and _she was_ and it was that realization that made it all too much to take.

"Emma, wait-"

He broke away from her lips roughly, but she took advantage of the few inches that he pulled away to trail kisses along the underside of his jaw, every delicious inch of her body carefully pressed against him.

"_Gods_, don't do this to me," his whispered words dissolved into an unrestrained moan when she nipped _hard_ at his neck, smoothing her tongue over it before kissing back up his jaw. "I can't-" he groaned, swallowing the words (he wasn't even sure of what he had been going to say) as she kissed him again, hands wandering in such a familiar and agonizing way, one hand delving into his hair (she had always liked _his_ hair too) and the other unzipping his leather jacket and urging him to shrug it off of his shoulders.

"Killian, please just- just _please_."

Gods, but he could swear that she sounded as desperate for this as he was, as lost and alone and beaten and broken. He let himself wonder if perhaps leaving had scarred her as much as it had him, bringing the hurt that she was so desperately trying to run from. He hoped selfishly that it had as his mouth found hers again with a new resolve, hungry, demanding, pained, his hand sliding up her back and tangling into her hair, pulling at it lightly as he got lost in her taste.

_Spiced rum._ She never drank rum unless it was with him. The mere idea that she had been drinking it while she was with another man because she missed _him _brought a rumbling groan into his throat.

"Hurry up," she gasped, and then she was pushing him back and undoing the button of her jeans herself, wriggling them down her hips and in another time he might have pulled her back and finished the job himself, but not now, not tonight.

Killian yanked his t-shirt over his head and tossed it aside, only looking up for a moment to watch Emma, wondering how sleeping with your wife could feel so much like a one night stand. The drinking, the tension, the awkwardness. Was this okay? Was that? It was like they didn't even know each other and like they were made for each other all at once, cold one second and burning white hot the next, the old Killian and Emma in fierce battle with each other as they fought over which they would be tonight.

Maybe neither, maybe both.

They fell into the bed together, her bare to him except for her bra, kicking her panties off of her toes and him naked only from the waist up, jeans hanging off of his hips and open just enough for his straining cock to bob against the zipper. It was all they needed as their mouths met and bodies ground together, desperate gasps and breaths and moans almost indistinguishable one from the other. He was on top of her but she was clearly in control, kissing and tugging and raking a hand through his hair again and gods help him, he let her. He'd dreamed about this, of taking her, alternating fantasies of showing her what a mistake she had made by leaving him and making slow, sweet love with lingering kisses and gasped out _I love you's_ depending on the particular mood.

None of his fantasies had been like this, so heated and raw yet emotionless all at once. It was mechanical, necessary, wrong but so, _so_ right.

"_Emma_."

He bit his lip and shuddered when he felt her hand reach for him, quick and needy, stroking him once, twice and he jerked in her hands. It'd been so long since he'd been touched. He'd spent so many nights thinking of her. It was too much. _"Fuck, you're so hard, Killian,"_ he heard her murmur under her breath - surprised, _lustful_ - as she closed her eyes and stroked him again and it took all he had not to take the control right then and there. She wanted him, but it did terrible things to him to know just _how much_. He held himself up with shaky arms, suspended above her, letting her touch him as she liked because it might be his last chance. _Emma. His Emma. _The endless, internal chanting of her name only intensified when she arched her hips upwards, guiding him between her legs. Their eyes met - _bad idea_. He watched as she screwed her eyes shut and arched again, urging him on, until finally he was there, pushing forward, slowly, slowly sinking into her.

Deep, tight, _home_ – _fuck_, it wasn't fair how much she felt like home (the only home that he had_ left_).

His chest tightened and he grit his teeth. _Emma, Emma, his Emma. _He couldn't hold himself back anymore, halfway there he thrust his hips sharply, burying himself the rest of the way inside of her, bottoming out so roughly it was painful. She hissed and lurched beneath him, nails digging into his shoulders and he knew she had felt it too, the burn, the ache, the blissful sting.

He didn't wait.

He wasn't gentle.

She didn't want him to be.

They were punishing, the both of them, kissing and clawing, all teeth and nails, bodies jolting in a bittersweet song composed of their ragged gasps and fought back moans, bruises blooming on lips and hips and knees. It wasn't what he had wanted, it wasn't what he had hoped for.

It was broken.

It was all they had.

At times it bordered on the edge of too much, the edge of him falling, becoming hers completely until she moaned his name and he could hear it - a part of her softening, breaking all over again, truly breaking, and he almost lost himself, months of pent up loss and lust and hurt and love –_ love_. He shouldn't be feeling it. He didn't want to be hers because he knew that she wasn't his. She would leave and this would just be a heartbreaking memory. _But he was._ Gods, he was hers.

"_Emma_."

I miss you. I need you. Come back to me.

As if she could hear the words he wished he could say, Emma gasped and cried out his name again, nearly sobbing it, scraping nails turning into clinging fingers, pulling him closer, muscles fluttering around him, _needing him_ and it was too familiar, too amazing to feel her falling apart, unraveling physically and emotionally beneath him. A voice in his head screamed danger, all the logic in him said exactly what it had said when she kissed him at the bar – _this means pain_. He needed to stop, to pull back, to reign in his emotions so he wouldn't drink himself into an incoherent stupor when he dragged himself back to his lonely apartment, but she choked out a strangled, "_oh god, I missed you_", bucking harshly, taking him deeper, and the breath whooshed out of his lungs like he had been punched in the stomach. His head dropped into the crook of her neck, listening to her pant and whisper in his ear and that's when he knew he couldn't do it.

He couldn't make love to his wife because she _wasn't_ his wife anymore and he'd be lying to himself if he said that she wouldn't slip out of the bed and leave him in the morning (or more likely, long before).

_It hurt._

It hurt like hell and it made him angry. Furious that they couldn't have this, that they couldn't be happy.

_They used to be happy._

A twisted and dormant part of him driven by self-preservation and misery began to awaken with every desperate moan he elicited from her, every feeling he was drawing reminding him not to let himself feel.

Killian thrust hard, thumb digging into her hip making a purple fingerprint of a bruise, his scarred and marred wrist pressing impatiently at her thigh and urging her legs further apart while he sucked a dark mark at her pulse, feeling it jump erratically beneath his tongue until she gasped for him again.

"Right_ there_."

He pushed himself into her again and then again, hitting that spot inside her that he always knew he had reached because of the sound she made, that whimper that was just for him. He may not know _Emma_ the way he used to, but he knew her body.

"_Oh_, just like that-like that, Killian." She moaned again, gripping a bicep hard enough to bruise and he grasped at her hip frantically, slowing his thrusts just a fraction as the tension built, a wave of pleasure rushing over him so quickly that for a moment he thought it was over.

_"Fuck, Emma."_

Perfect, soft, pink lips parted in a silent cry, muscles tightening, body arching and writhing and tangling with his just in time as she came, his relentless drives into her refusing her a gentle calm after the storm. Her legs wrapped around his waist as his movements sped, chasing his own release, but he shoved them aside, thrusting a few more rough, sloppy thrusts and then he forced himself to pull out, hand wrapping around himself and sliding up and down his length before she could protest.

He was already there. His face contorted, his head lolling back as he came with a grunt that sounded more like a whine, spilling half onto her stomach and half onto the sheets, hips rocking into his hand slightly as he drew out his orgasm until he fell forward, catching himself on her drawn up knees.

"_Fucking hell_," was all he allowed himself, his eyes fluttering open, his gaze flickering to her for the briefest of moments.

Her expression was a combination of surprise and hurt when he pulled back and wiped his hand on the stained and rumpled sheets, lowering his eyes. "Can't have you pregnant," he mumbled as halfhearted explanation for the mess (it startled him how cold he could sound when minutes before he had been drowning in emotion) as he stumbled off the bed and onto his feet, glancing around the dark suite for the bathroom.

He couldn't look at her anymore, if he did, it would be the end of him and his resolve.

It was cruel, but no crueler than her bringing him here.

"We used to talk about it."

Her quiet, wistful tone froze him in his tracks for the second time that night and his heart ached, throbbed really, the unexpected memory of them lying in bed together and teasing each other about having babies (he demanded a jolly brood of ten and she negotiated her own offer of two) while Henry was downstairs, curled up with a ratty (but extra comfy) blanket, cartoons droning in the background as he slept.

_They did used to be happy. _

"Do you really want to raise another child without a father, love?"

The words came out more harshly than he originally expected. He looked over his shoulder and caught the way her expression broke and then hardened, her jaw set into a stiff line, lips pursed, and she pulled the unsoiled bit of blankets around her shoulders, a childish sort of comfort. She didn't argue with him. She couldn't and he knew it. She hadn't come here to get him back, she'd brought him there to scratch an itch and the itch had indeed been scratched.

"So that's it then?" she said finally, tone firm and resigned. "We just… go back and pretend this didn't happen?"

"Isn't that what you wanted, Emma?"

"I don't know what I wanted, Killian."

A pause.

A nod.

A sigh.

"Well then. That's one thing we still have in common."

**Review for more?**


	4. Chapter 4

_I've been a fool and I've been blind  
I can never leave the past behind  
I can see no way, I can see no way  
_

_Shake It Out - Florence+The Machine_

Emma didn't want to move.

His chest was too warm and inviting. The _thump-thump_ of his heartbeat against her cheek was too familiar. The rhythmic stroking of her hair and the way his arm was wrapped around her shoulder, tucking her into him with a firmness that said he wouldn't be letting her go anytime soon felt too safe and that's exactly what made it so _dangerous_.

But apparently Emma laughed in the face of danger these past few weeks and this hotel room was slowly becoming her escape, _their _escape. It wasn't her apartment and it wasn't his. It was a cold, faceless, memory-less room (or at least it used to be). She could have him for a few hours, a night at most, and then go to work in the morning and try to pretend that it hadn't meant anything and that spending the night with her ex-husband was like any other one night stand.

It didn't mean anything.

It wouldn't lead to more (because she couldn't let it).

She wasn't good enough for him anymore.

Emma she didn't deserve to be held and loved and made love to after she had broken his heart and then stomped it into the ground for good measure, but Henry's death had shaken her to the very core, sending her reeling until she barely felt human (much less, a good wife). Losing her family and friends in the curse had hurt. She couldn't count how many times she had woken up with visions of their faces still flickering in her head from a night of restless dreaming - but she had Killian and she had Henry and eventually, with work and with time they had been _happy_. They'd gotten jobs. Gotten married. Done the family thing. Three broken pieces that had been fitted back together to make a new, beautiful picture that she hadn't ever wanted to stop looking at.

And after Henry's death she'd thrown it all away like it had been_ his_ fault.

Depression, pent up frustration from always losing _everyone_, trust issues, fear – the old, broken Emma Swan had come back full force, walls thrown up higher than ever in a crazed effort to stop the throbbing, burning, emptiness in her chest that refused to go away and the pain and sympathy on his face only made it worse. She'd been selfish, lost in her own misery that she hadn't taken the time to consider his, and by the time she did, it was too late. They'd already drifted apart, too many sharp words and nights spent on the couch having driven a thick wedge between them that couldn't easily be moved.

It was just so much easier to leave it there.

Emma didn't know if she could forgive herself for that, for pushing him away, and no matter what he might say (if she had the courage to even ask), she didn't know if he could forgive her either. She didn't know if he _should. _If she were in his position, she wasn't so sure that_ she _would be able to let something like that go, so she didn't ask. Instead, she took these nights for what they were, a soothing balm on a festering wound that wouldn't ever properly heal. He was her painkiller and sometimes she wondered if she was the same for him, or if she just cut him all the deeper every time she crawled into that crisp, hotel room bed.

The sheets rustled as he shifted, his hand slipping from her hair for a moment to tug the blanket further around her shoulders and over his chest, only to return to it as quickly as it had gone, his fingers going back to the same, gentle rhythm. She didn't understand how loving he always was after sex and how much she wanted him to be, holding and touching in that ever tangible silence, heeding the unspoken rule - _You can touch but you can't talk because if you talk, this won't work anymore. If you talk, you'll break. _

"So how does it feel to be having an affair with your husband?"

He talked.

He broke the rule.

Of course he did.

Emma closed her eyes and took a deep breath through her nose, breathing in and letting it back out just as slowly, opening them again as she stared at the empty, white wall of the hotel room. She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the statement but her expression remained blank, resigned - she wasn't sure she had any real laughs left in her. An affair. Yeah. That's exactly what they were doing.

"It's terrible," she whispered and for once she was telling them both the truth.

Whatever this was,_ it hurt_.

"I wouldn't say that it was _terrible_, love," he replied softly, a change coming over his tone as if the solemn spell had been broken when their rule had. "Perhaps if you hadn't removed my head from between those lovely legs of yours then-"

She stiffened in his arms, effectively cutting off his playful quip, his teasing too much to take in the same way that the intimate gesture had been when he had kissed his way down the valley of her breasts and the tensed muscles of her stomach until she had rasped out a hoarse _no_ and pulled him back to her lips.

God, they were fucked up.

"You used to like it," he commented offhandedly, his tone sounding more like a verbal shrug than insulted and there was something so damned sad about it that she felt her chest clench and her throat tighten ever so slightly.

_"We used to talk about it."_ Her words from weeks ago echoed in her head. _"You used to like it."_

It hit her all at once that tragically accepting "used to's" and hotel room fucks were all they had now and as scared as she was of it becoming more after everything that had happened, she wasn't happy.

"Maybe we need a change."

"A change? When we have all of this?" he motioned to the small, barren room as if gesturing to a kingdom all their own, a sardonic chuckle rumbling in his throat.

God, why was he still teasing? When had that even become okay between them?

She shook her head against him (which was really only her rubbing her cheek into his chest – he didn't seem to mind it). "Let's go away somewhere."

She felt him tense and then groan, but hold her all the tighter anyway.

"Don't say things like that, Darling."

"Like what?"

"Things that… give me hope."

"We could use some."

He sat up abruptly, so quickly that her upper body slipped from his and landed lightly against the pillows behind him. He turned away from her and ran a clawed hand through his ruffled hair, bits already sticking out in odd directions. "No. Gods, Emma, you know I want you more than anything in the bloody world, you can't say things like this to me. Isn't it cruel enough that you-"

"That I what, Killian?" She followed suit, sitting up, subconsciously pulling the covers over her chest. "That I use you? That I left you?" Killian sighed again, long and shuddering, and she'd have preferred him to whirl around and scream at her than hear that sound of submissive defeat. "That I ran away and closed off and didn't let you in and now I'm-" Her voice broke. Why did he always make her feel so damned weak?

"Emma, I... It was my fault as it was yours," he sighed. "What happened between us."

"No," she breathed with a slight shake of her head. "Pretty sure that was just me."

There was a pregnant pause as both tried to think of what to say next and why did it seem like seventy-five percent of their time together was comprised of long, tension-filled silences now? She felt him fall back into bed before she saw him, flat on his back, arms crossed behind his head and staring at the ceiling. He let an arm drop and stretch out beside him limply, a meek invitation back into his arms.

After a moment, she gently eased herself back down, enjoying the heat of his skin and the way he curled his arm around her shoulders and rolled her onto her side.

"If we did go away together," he began hesitantly, and he sounded like a man standing on the edge of a cliff and looking down, asking her if it was safe to jump. "-where would you have us go?"

God, but he shouldn't be _so perfect_. She hated that he was so perfect. Always thinking of her, deferring to her wants and needs and it made her feel so terrible that he was so hopelessly devoted because she didn't deserve it. "I don't know," she commented softly, a smile curving her lips. "I hear Wonderland is nice this time of year."

He raised an eyebrow and actually smirked. "I don't think that Wonderland is nice _any_ time of year, love. Trust me. I've been."

The words hung between them for a moment too long, a moment too late to answer with her own playful quip (if she could think of one), so she played with his chest absentmindedly, tracing her fingers in small circles amongst the dark hairs, staring at nothing in particular, pursing her lips as she toyed with a thought in her head. "Do you ever think about us going back?"

He hesitated, breath catching slightly at the question. "To the way we were?"

Emma bit her lip and she should have known better than the phrase the question so vaguely, because the hesitant hope in his tone sent a pang of guilt straight to her gut. "The Enchanted Forest."

"Oh."

"I can't get it out of my head. Not since... maybe it's just time. Maybe it's been long enough, Killian, if we could find everyone, magic, then maybe-"

"Don't." She flinched at the harshness in his tone. "I know what it is that you're thinking, Darling, and it won't bring him back. Even if we found a way to cross realms, there's no telling where they were left by the curse or what state that world is even _in_."

She propped herself up on an elbow, trying not to let the knot in her chest choke her at the firmness to his tone. She bit her bottom lip hard to keep it from trembling. "I know he's not coming back, I know that but- maybe if we could go back, to before the curse, maybe with magic we could-"

"And what price do you think that would have, Emma?" he snapped, eyes flashing with a buried pain, a spark of life on his face that she hadn't seen in a long time now. "What are you willing to pay for something like that?"

She stared straight into his vibrant, flashing blue eyes, unwavering. "_Anything_."

His look softened and he surprised her. He leaned forward and kissed her shoulder. "Take it from someone who spent centuries chasing a ghost – you won't find what you're seeking, not with vengeance, not with magic… nor with leaving those who wish to ease your suffering." He placed a kiss down her arm with every quiet truth that left his lips. "The world is as it is and as it will be, love."

"You wouldn't even try?"

"I'd do _anything _for you, Emma. But nothing that would lead only to your pain or worse."

She took another deep breath, tearing her gaze away from the imploring sincerity in his and shook her head, shrugging her shoulders as she picked herself up and began to slip out of bed. "I should go."

Killian sat up against the headboard. "So we're not going away together after all?" he replied somewhat bitterly, as if he should have known all along that she hadn't meant it - that it hadn't been about _him_ at all.

"I'll call you."

"_Will you_, Emma?"

"Tonight. Just… I need to take a breath, okay?"

He nodded, having no other choice.

"We'll talk then. We'll talk about this," she promised, meeting his eyes and forcing a smile. "I won't forget."

He met her smile with his own. "I would despair if you did."

**Review for a quick update?**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/n: You all are so wonderful! All the great reviews! Thank you so much. Here, have an extra long chapter. :D**

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_I'm done chasing you all over  
May as well be chasing after thunder  
Play hard to get if it makes you happy  
For a change now you can start chasing me_

_Should've When You Could've - Skillet_

"Hey."

Killian Jones didn't know that he could be broken by a single word. Until now, it had taken at least a handful of carefully chosen ones from her to truly shatter him, but somehow, this casual, flippant greeting sent a dagger into his chest that left him feeling cold, frozen over, numb.

She hadn't called.

Of course she hadn't called.

Why was he always so bloody stupid when it came to her? Sitting on the sofa, staring at his phone on his lap like a boy with a crush, flipping absently through tv channels and drinking a bit too much as the evening wore on into night wore on into wee morning. He should have expected it really. Their last conversation had been too intimate, too free, too full of secrets and hidden desires and loving caresses and a tension that wanted to give way to so much more.

Killian had woken up with his head pounding and the world a moving blur, groaning, fully prepared to throw the covers back over his head and bury his face into his pillow and sleep his Saturday away and now, here she was, standing at his bloody door like she still had the right.

One thing could be said for Emma Swan, she snapped him out of a hangover faster than any home remedy he'd ever tried.

"What do you want?" The words sounded cold and distant even to himself.

Emma frowned. "You don't have to let me in, but I want to talk."

"Lovely. Then I won't." He pursed his lips into something resembling a smile and he knew the look said _fuck you_ clearer than it could coming straight out of his mouth, but he couldn't care. He didn't _want_ to care anymore and so he didn't. He shut off. He was done.

He wished he could be done.

Her frown deepened, and he felt her scanning him over. He probably looked exactly like his night had been. He didn't care about that either.

His eyes were tired and vaguely bloodshot, face paled from his hangover and hair sticking out every which way in a manner that only seemed to happen from being thoroughly fucked or from a restless night of tossing, turning, and scraping your own fingers through it. He hadn't bothered putting on a shirt and though he hadn't worn his hook in years, light, barely noticeable scars from skin rubbed raw for too long showed where the old straps had held it in place. Instead, all he wore were an old pair of grey sweatpants hanging loosely off of his hips in a way that would normally be tantalizing but based on her expression, Emma didn't seem to find him particularly enticing at the moment.

"You've been drinking."

"I had a long night. Full of waiting… until I stopped." There was that fuck you smile again. How did that get there? "What is it that you needed then? Because unless it's to tell me about a terrible cellphone-related incident…"

Her face fell. "Killian, I didn't mean to-"

"I don't care," he interrupted.

"What?"

"Love, I've been playing this game with you too bloody long and I don't care what you meant or didn't mean to do any longer because you did it."

_"Killian, where did you say the coffee was?"_

He was startled back into reality by the voice coming from his kitchen and for a moment he tensed, glancing over his shoulder and briefly resisting the urge to look back at Emma. There was no reason for the quick pang of guilt to his gut, but somehow the feeling slipped by because he hadn't had a woman in his apartment since Emma and even _she_ hadn't been there since she left.

It felt wrong.

He shouldn't care about what she felt.

He did.

"Second cabinet to the right," he paused, noticing an interesting look cross and then disappear in Emma's expression. "Just above the stove, love," he went on, relaxing, each word deliberate and thought out - particularly the last because he didn't care about what she felt anymore.

All of a sudden, Emma looked small. "You have someone over?"

Killian leaned against the doorframe, staring her down. "A man can't wait all night for a call that's never going to come, now can he?"

"I-"

He enjoyed stunning her into silence.

He hoped she _hurt_.

He was a bloody arse.

"Did you find it?" He called behind him, turning his attention back to the apartment. A long-legged brunette, young - perhaps twenty-five - came into view, her face drawing into a surprised look that appeared a cross between embarrassed and apologetic when she saw that it was Emma standing in the doorway.

"Yeah, got it," she replied with a short nod, glancing warily from Killian to Emma.

"Good," he smiled.

Killian found himself glancing the woman up and down.

In another time, he might have noticed right off how short her pajama shorts were when he'd first opened the door, or realized that it was no coincidence that the neighbor girl who had cast him smiles and lingering, flirtatious looks in the halls for weeks had shown up at his door at nine in the morning to borrow instant coffee. He might have. He just hadn't given a damn.

He'd barely acknowledged her as she'd walked in, practically ignored her attempt at polite conversation or her jesting apologies for being such a caffeine addict and bothering him on a Saturday. Her intentions were obvious but he'd woken up heartbroken with a hangover that would weaken the devil himself. He'd simply shrugged and mumbled that it was fine and pointed her towards the kitchen with brief instruction. He would have let himself fall back into bed and show herself out if it hadn't been for a second knock.

In another time, he might have even taken her up on her innocent flirtations or excuses to see him. He might have let her soothe the hurt in the form of her legs wrapped tightly around his waist and her lips on his neck or cock, as temporary a salve for his scabbed over wounds that it would have been, even if he was quite aware that she was young and attracted to the idea of taking in a sad, broken thing to fix up.

But she _was_ attractive and she was younger and she was sweet, and with Emma here, jaw tightening as her eyes watched the woman move closer to him, _now_ he noticed it all.

Her eyes flitted to Emma for a moment. "I… was just heading out. Thanks for- I mean, thanks for letting me take this, I'll bring it back when I'm-"

"Anytime, love," he purred, flashing her a warm smile, holding her eye contact for a moment long enough to make her blush and chew on her bottom lip as she slipped past them and into the hallway, walking briskly back to her apartment, looking over her shoulder once or twice on her way.

"Nice girl." He watched Emma, a nerve twitching in her jaw from clenching it so tightly and he couldn't help but feel a small thrill run through him. "It's impolite to stare," he commented casually, his lips turning up into a mirthless smirk when her head jerked back from the woman walking down the hall and back to his face, her jaw stiff and her expression guarded. "What exactly do you intend to do, love? Fight every woman who comes near for rights to my bed?"

"Shutup, Killian."

"No, I'd love to see that. It'd be refreshing to see you actually _fight for us_," he snarled, almost feeling guilty at the stricken look on her face, but only almost.

"Do you really think I didn't try?"

"If turning the cold shoulder and spending your nights wrapped in an old blanket on his bedroom floor was trying, then yes, you fought quite valiantly for us, Lass."

"I needed you!"

"I was there!" He could feel himself grow hot, memories of her constantly shrugging off his casual touches and words of affection flashing through his mind. "I was always there, Emma!"

"No, you weren't! You think you were but you weren't, Killian!"

Killian's mouth snapped shut, his previously planned words melting into nothing as he watched her eyes fill with tears and her lips tremble with held back emotion. Her fingers moved to cover them then dropped just as quickly as she looked away from him. Her hand migrated to brush at a loose lock of hair.

"And maybe that was my fault, maybe I shouldn't have expected you to…" she swallowed hard and he took a tentative step into the hall, studying her expression, searching for something, anything.

"When wasn't I there, love?"

She continued to bite her lip hard, fighting back tears, her breathing picking up with every passing second and the part of him that could never truly hurt her took another step closer, his hand brushing her arm. She didn't flinch. _Gods, help him. _She relaxed into his touch as a tear brimmed in her eyes.

"Emma, _talk to me_, for once, just tell me what I've done."

"You tried, Killian," she sighed, and for a split second, his anger flared. It was too much.

"I _tried_? Emma, I _died_ every bloody moment that you did, it killed me everytime that you shut me out. Fucking hells, I loved him too!"

"I know! I know you did," she choked out a rough-sounding sob, held back tears slipped past her eyes too quickly for her to stop and staining her already reddened cheeks.

"Then tell me what it was!"

"Because you didn't understand!"

Killian stilled, dumbstruck. "_I _didn't understand? I didn't understand what, Emma, _I _don't understand your pain? Because I've never lost anyone, is that it?"

"No! You didn't understand _me!_ You'd always tell me that-that it would get better and that we'd get through this together and you'd hold me and you'd try to talk about him, fuck, Killian, I didn't want to talk about him! I didn't want to get through it."

"What are you talking about?"

"I couldn't just _talk about him_ like you could. I couldn't just bring up fond memories like he wasn't-" She wiped at her eyes frantically as more tears fell, fear and hurt and anger welling up all at once. "I needed you to come with me when I slept on his floor, I needed you to hold me and let me be upset instead of trying to talk me through it," her voice broke and she didn't seem to care that she was standing in their old hallway, about to cry her eyes out. "I know I was selfish and I know it's not fair, but I didn't need you to help me get through the grieving process, I just needed you to help me _grieve_. And you couldn't do that and it hurt."

Her words stopped abruptly and she searched his eyes as if begging him to understand.

"And I think that you did it so long _with her_ that you were too scared to do it again. Because there wasn't any revenge to make it better, he was just gone and there was nothing for us to do about it."

Her tone went soft and thoughtful and sad and he felt like the wind had been knocked out of him as soon as he realized that she had been talking about Milah.

"Emma…"

He hadn't done that, had he? He didn't want her to hurt, he had wanted to help, he wanted to save her from falling into the pit that he had so long ago. But she was right. He didn't know anything about properly grieving. Everyone he had lost - his brother, Milah - had been followed by a hefty vow, some haughty promise of reprisal in one way or another and with Henry, there had been no vows to make, no murderer to hold responsible because it had been a reckless _accident_ that had killed the driver faster than it had his stepson.

"I didn't know how to handle it. We _lost him_ and you have always just_ known_ what I needed and this time you didn't or couldn't and-"

"Emma, love."

He didn't know what else to say. Part of him rebelled at her words, something deep and dark calling her a liar, condemning her for daring to say that he hadn't been there – another part knew that she was right and _he hated it_.

"I ended our relationship. That was on me. That was my fault. " She took a deep breath, slowing her tears and Emma's jaw stiffened, resolute, strong. "But we'd already drifted so far apart." All at once she was speaking quickly again, sorting out her feeling in her head as she stared at nothing in particular, running a hand through her hair. "And I blame myself, god, I blame myself for pushing you away, but sometimes I just needed you to push a little harder and I hated that I wasn't strong enough to just- it was just easier to- the point is, I was wrong." A lone tear slipped down her cheek.

His heart ached to see her hurt, he ached to be part of the cause of it, he ached because she'd ended their marriage over something that could have been fixed, and be _burned _because he hadn't known and it wasn't fucking fair that she hadn't told him sooner.

"Why did you let me believe that none of it was my fault?"

"Because it wasn't. You had a reason for what you did and I had a reason for what I did. It wasn't your fault, Killian. It was me. I'm broken."

Her lip trembled, the last sentence coming out no louder than a breath and he wanted nothing more than to kiss that lip until it stopped trembling.

"I'm sorry I didn't call."

She met his wide blue eyes and he wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her until all the pain stopped.

"I'm sorry I didn't talk to you about all this sooner."

He wanted to fall into bed with her and wrap themselves up in each other and he wanted everything to be fixed.

"So. I guess I just wanted to tell you all that," she sighed, looking up into his stare.

He wished he wasn't seeing hope in it.

His head hurt.

His heart hurt.

Everything hurt.

"I should go. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to… scare off your company," she went on hesitantly, unable to hide the note of bitterness in her tone. She shook her head. "I'll go."

He paused, hesitant and perhaps a bit daring. "Or you could come in," he replied smoothly, the offer accompanied by a small shrug.

She scoffed with a sound that was almost a laugh, rolling her eyes. "You're not even gonna wash the sheets first?"

He tensed. "It's possible that I allowed you to believe that _that_ was more than it was."

"Killian, you don't have to-"

"She was borrowing coffee."

Emma raised an eyebrow. "Is that what they call it now?"

"She was borrowing coffee, Emma. But I wasn't about to correct you if you thought otherwise," he sighed, shaking his head with a _"can you blame me"_ look.

"It's ok if she wasn't, you know," she said quietly, looking at the ground then back up at him.

Killian looked up as well, standing up straighter so he was no longer leaning against the doorway, sighing softly. "What exactly do you want, Emma?"

He waited a long time before she answered.

"To stop running. To stop hurting you. And if that means me leaving, then I'll go," she paused, taking a deep breath and meeting his steady gaze. "But I don't want to."

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**Review pretty please? There will be more smut, just gotta get through some stuff. ;)**


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